


shut up and put your money where your mouth is

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Alcohol made them do it, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is a writer, Fluff and Angst, Grantaire designs his book covers, Las Vegas, M/M, Weddings, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the long list of Hollywood rom-com clichés that Enjolras has once upon a time imagined becoming his life, this probably would have had to be the one that takes the cake. It has to, since most of the Hollywood rom-coms that Enjolras has ever watched are tame, comparatively. Most of the Hollywood rom-coms that Enjolras has watched are the fault of Courfeyrac, but Enjolras is relatively certain that this one is entirely his own fault—which is just great, since he’s wearing a wedding band.</p><p>He supposes that it’s only fair, really, that when that finishes sinking in and he opens his eyes it’s Grantaire’s sleeping face that greets him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shut up and put your money where your mouth is

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user [bea-lullaby](http://bea-lullaby.tumblr.com/), who won my very first giveaway ~~months ago I’m a horrible person~~.
> 
> Betaed by Murf, as always. With a look by Marta and Kat, who are lovely. All other mistakes are my own.

**shut up and put your money where your mouth is**

\--

In the long list of Hollywood rom-com clichés that Enjolras has once upon a time imagined becoming his life, this probably would be the one that takes the cake. It has to, since most of the Hollywood rom-coms that Enjolras has ever watched are tame, comparatively. Most of the Hollywood rom-coms that Enjolras has watched are the fault of Courfeyrac, but Enjolras is relatively certain that this one is entirely his own fault--which is just great, since he’s wearing a wedding band.

He supposes that it's only fair, really, that when that finishes sinking in and he opens his eyes it's Grantaire's sleeping face that greets him. There are faint imprints of the extremely tacky necklace that is digging into Enjolras’ own collarbone marring his cheeks, his hair is in complete and utter disarray, and there are the beginnings of what Enjolras thinks are love-bites crawling up the underside of his jaw.

“Oh my god,” he manages to say. “I think I had sex with Grantaire.”

“You didn’t,” says Grantaire, not opening his eyes. “You can stop freaking out.”

Enjolras’ eyes flick down to the wedding band around his finger.

“Right,” says Grantaire. “That.” He yawns and opens his eyes. “Good morning, Husband.” He shifts a little in the bed, a move which puts his very cold, very naked feet right up against Enjolras’ equally naked legs, and drags the sheet down to reveal an awful lot of skin.

“Are you--” Enjolras tries to say. “Are you sure?”

“Am I sure that you didn’t have sex with me?” says Grantaire. “Pretty sure.” He yawns again. “Like at least eighty percent. I’m not sure why we’re naked, but I am at least--” He breaks off to rub at a particularly large bruise on his neck, and frowns. “--seventy percent sure there was no fucking of any kind.”

“I thought you said eighty percent,” says Enjolras, with probably a lot more panic than he intends. Less than he feels, though.

“Mm,” says Grantaire. “I changed my mind.”

“That’s comforting,” mutters Enjolras, pointedly not thinking about the ring around his finger. “I’m glad we got that straightened out.”

“I’m not sure why the sex thing is bothering you, though,” says Grantaire, and then before Enjolras can level a truly disdainful look on him adds, “in lieu of our apparent marriage, I mean.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “Yes. That.”

“Mm,” Grantaire says again. “Is that familiar?”

“What?” croaks out Enjolras.

“Me making that noise,” clarifies Grantaire. “I’ve been told I make it a lot when having sex.”

Enjolras doesn’t fall out of the bed, but it is a very close call. “Um,” he says. “No, I--I need to go to the bathroom.”

He takes the top sheet and leaves the blankets, but Grantaire doesn’t so much as pull them up as he watches Enjolras walk across the room, grab his phone, and close the bathroom door behind him.

“So,” says Courfeyrac when he picks up the phone. “How’s married life treating you?”

Enjolras hangs up on him.

“I told you Vegas was a terrible idea,” says Combeferre when he picks up the phone. “You laughed at me.”

“When did you tell me that?” says Enjolras. “I don’t remember you telling me that.”

Combeferre makes an odd noise over the phone, and then his voice is suddenly much closer. “Last night,” he says. “You might have been drunk.”

“I might--!” starts Enjolras, loudly, and then remembers Grantaire in the room over; he covers the phone with one hand. “I might have been drunk?” he hisses. “I am currently hiding in a hotel bathroom _naked_ because I got married to Grantaire last night!”

“Right,” says Combeferre, “which is why I told you Vegas was a terrible idea.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth. “What?” he says. He’s aware that he is clutching at the bed sheet in a way that is very much bordering on panicked, and very quickly sits down on the toilet seat.

“You told me you and Grantaire were going to get married,” says Combeferre, “and I told you Vegas was a bad idea.”

Enjolras hangs up on him.

“That bad, I take it?” says Courfeyrac when he picks up the phone. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Enjolras pauses. “What?”

“I asked you how married life was treating you,” says Courfeyrac, “and you hung up on me. I took that to mean it was going badly.”

Enjolras considers hanging up on him again. “How do you know about that?” he says instead.

“What, that you married Grantaire last night?” says Courfeyrac. Now that he thinks about it, his friend certainly sounds cheerful--nothing at all like the headache currently wreaking havoc on Enjolras’ temples.

“Yes,” he says, when it becomes clear that Courfeyrac is actually expecting some sort of answer to that question.

“I was your best man.”

Enjolras hangs up on him.

“I’m not taking the photos off of facebook,” says Eponine when she picks up the phone. “I think they’re sweet. And R’s been yelling at everyone who comments for the past five minutes. It’s like some sort of terrible voyeuristic documentary film.”

“What?” says Enjolras.

“What?” Eponine hangs up on him.

“I have absolutely no comment on any of the events that occurred last night,” says Bahorel when he picks up the phone. “But I do want to say they were completely legal.”

Enjolras blinks. “How did you know I was going to ask that?” he says.

“Though technically, it’s not really a marriage,” continues Bahorel, brightly. “Technically it’s a domestic partnership--you have the same rights, though.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, and then frowns. “Hang on, this sound familiar.” He vaguely remembers being draped across something talking very loudly with Bahorel, but most of that is a blur.

“Oh, good,” says Bahorel. “Joly was very concerned that you weren’t going to remember anything.”

“Were any of our friends not aware of this?” says Enjolras, dryly.

Bahorel is worryingly silent. “Why?” he says finally.

Enjolras snorts. “So that they could stop me?”

“Call Cosette,” says Bahorel, and hangs up on him.

“I refuse to ask Marius to ask Eponine to take down the photos,” says Cosette.

“That’s not what I thought you were going to say,” says Enjolras, finally. “And _what photos_?”

“Oh,” says Cosette. “Oh, never mind.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I am about to log onto facebook,” he says, pulling his phone away from his ear and switching to speaker. “Will I regret this decision?”

“No,” says Cosette. “Yes. Don’t do it. Eponine owes me money.”

“What, did you guys chronicle my marriage?” says Enjolras, somewhat exasperatedly. “They can’t be that bad.”

Cosette is worryingly silent. “See, um,” she says. “How much do you remember?”

Enjolras doesn’t speak for a moment. “Feelings,” he says finally. That seems accurate enough, at least. He has a vague recollection of warmth--warmth in the deepest parts of his skin, in the pit of his stomach, in his throat swallowing truly awful beer, and the warmth of hands curling around his neck. “I was happy, at least?”

Cosette makes an odd sound that comes out a mix between a cough and laughter. “Right,” she says. “Please don’t kill me.”

\--

“You know I was joking when I said ‘that bad,’ right?” says Courfeyrac when he arrives downstairs at the hotel bar.

Enjolras just stares forward morosely and sighs. “I hate my life,” he says.

Courfeyrac takes the seat next to him and orders a drink. “Do you want one?” he asks Enjolras.

“No,” says Enjolras, glumly. He looks down at his left hand, gold band around his middle finger a heavy, and terrifying thing. “No, see, that’s what got me into this in the first place.”

Courfeyrac smiles at the bartender and takes a sip of his drink. “Please,” he says. “Don’t even try to pretend that any of your feelings for R were alcohol induced.”

Enjolras sighs. “He was asleep when I left,” he says finally. “Obviously he wasn’t all that concerned.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head at him. “Believe me, no one is freaking out as much as Grantaire is right now.”

“Right,” says Enjolras. “At least he didn’t do the proposing.”

Courfeyrac blinks. “You remembered!” he says brightly.

“Cosette told me,” says Enjolras. “Did I really spend an hour growing, as she put it, ‘increasingly more maudlin and depressive practically in your lap’?”

“Yep,” says Courfeyrac. “But then you decided to go be increasingly maudlin and depressive in Grantaire’s lap, at which point the kissing happened.”

Enjolras groans and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m actually surprised,” continues Courfeyrac, unperturbed. “R didn’t do any marking--I would have thought he’d piss on you if he could.”

Enjolras raises his head up out off his arms to glare at him. “That’s my husband you’re talking about,” he says, mostly to cover the sudden flush marring his cheeks.

“I’m glad you’re warming up to it,” says Grantaire, brightly, from the bar entrance. He comes over to the two of them and settles into the seat next to Enjolras, snagging Courfeyrac’s drink and downing it. “Husband.”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras, sourly. He moves over accordingly to give Grantaire space, and tries very hard not to think about why he’s wearing a decorative neck scarf.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” says Courfeyrac, finally.

“Eponine let me borrow it,” says Grantaire. “Be it that we are in Nevada, I did not bring any turtlenecks.” He grins. “Nor did I plan on meeting Enjolras the vampire here.”

Enjolras lets out another groan and ducks his head again. “Can we stop talking about it?” he says.

“About the fact that your teeth and my neck are practically as married as we are?” says Grantaire. “Absolutely not--you are never living this down.”

“I hate you,” says Enjolras.

“You married me.”

“I can still hate you,” says Enjolras. “Lots of people are married and hate each other--my parents included.”

“Ouch,” says Courfeyrac. “I’m going to need another drink after that.”

“Yes,” says Grantaire, gently this time, “but see, your tongue in my mouth would say otherwise.”

“I was drunk!” protests Enjolras, weakly. “I don’t remember, anyway.”

“No?” says Grantaire. “Let me refresh your memory.”

“Wha--” Enjolras tries to say, before Grantaire is kissing him. Probably Grantaire is not lying about the making out, because there is no way in hell that he is managing to hit all of Enjolras’ erogenous zones on a first try. It’s not possible. Enjolras goes from somewhat grumblingly acquiescing to trying desperately not to give up the ghost and bury his hands in Grantaire’s hair; his toes are possibly curling, which is bad, because he is wearing flip-flops, and he has to fight to keep his eyes open.

“So?” says Grantaire when he pulls back. He licks his lips, and Enjolras follows the movement with baited breath.

“It is possible that you kissed me last night,” he says, at last, with as much dignity as he can manage. His toes, sadly, remain curled up close to the soles of his feet.

Courfeyrac glances under the bar table for a moment, and grins. “Well, well, well,” he says. “So that’s not just a cliché.”

“Shut up,” says Enjolras, briskly. He gestures for a drink, which he takes with a sigh and swallows. “Don’t talk to me.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Apollo,” says Grantaire, mildly. “We’ll just get it annulled.”

“Terminated, I think,” says Courfeyrac. When both Enjolras and Grantaire turn to look at him, he blinks. “What? I know things.”

Enjolras scowls. “About domestic partnerships in the state of Nevada?” he says. “Specifically?”

“Well, okay,” says Courfeyrac. “That one might have been something I looked up this morning after I saw the photos on facebook and remembered. But I am a very knowledgeable person and it would do you two good to remember that.”

“It is very hard to forget that you are a knowledgeable person, Courfeyrac,” says Combeferre, settling into the seat next to Grantaire at the bar, “when you are constantly texting us all the weird facts you learn.” He’s wearing a pair of truly hideous sunglasses and his knuckles look a little raw.

“You love my weird facts,” says Courfeyrac, primly. “And don’t pretend you didn’t think that cockroach one was cool.”

“Disturbing,” says Combeferre. “Particularly since you followed it up with ‘must do research.’”

“I thought you’d be proud of me for that,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re always saying back up my claims with evidence.”

“I’m always saying stop gossiping about our friends’ sex lives without evidence,” says Combeferre. “They are not the same thing.”

He presses a hand to his head, and sighs, before taking the sunglasses off.

“What happened to you?” says Enjolras, suddenly horrified.

Combeferre sighs again, as if he doesn’t currently have a black eye, and yawns. “You should see the other guy,” he says.

“And girl,” adds Eponine, appearing with Cosette. She is sporting a split lip and a fast purpling bruise high on one cheek. “It really wasn’t fair--the guy never stood a chance.”

“What guy?” says Enjolras. He debates reaching out to inspect the bruising on Combeferre’s face, and ends up doing so when Grantaire hauls Eponine in close to peer at hers.

“You’ll notice that Grantaire is wearing one of my scarves,” says Eponine, around Grantaire’s fingers.

“Yes?” says Enjolras, quickly. “We’re not talking about that.”

“No, see,” says Eponine. “I’m not trying to embarrass you--there were a couple guys who took issue with the two of you being as handsy as you were.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” says Grantaire, reaching out with the hand not holding Eponine’s chin to smack at Enjolras’ arm. “Idiot.”

“I will say that the photos on facebook are there with the intention to embarrass you,” says Eponine. “Just to clarify.”

“Thank you,” says Enjolras. “You’re lucky you just took a punch for me.”

“Please,” says Eponine. “I took a punch for this one,” she nudges Grantaire with one hip and bats his hands away from her face. “Although, be it that you are now married to him, I guess theoretically I took a punch for you as well.”

“I’m pretty sure the wedding happened after the tonguing,” puts in Courfeyrac, “because I will be having nightmares of Enjolras coming to the conclusion that because Grantaire was such a fabulous kisser obviously they should get married.”

“What?” says Enjolras.

“That did not happen,” says Grantaire.

“I have photo proof!” says Eponine.

“I am so glad I stayed in,” says Joly.

They all turn around to look towards the hotel lobby, where Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet are standing. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Jehan are visible across the way at the front desk, probably checking out.

“Hey,” says Musichetta. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Nah,” says Bossuet. “They’re not going to last a week married--we’re stopping by the court house on our way home, yeah?”

“Yes,” Grantaire tries to say, at the same time Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“Wait, hang on,” he says. “Who says we couldn’t last a week married?”

There is a slightly awkward silence.

“Um,” says Courfeyrac, finally. “Everyone?”

Enjolras glances around at all of them, with narrow eyes. “Why the hell not?” he says. “I’m sure Grantaire is a perfectly lovely husband.”

Grantaire makes a choking noise. “I think the point they’re making is that most of the time we argue, and it’s no small secret that you aren’t my biggest fan.”

“Of course I’m not your biggest fan,” says Enjolras. “You should be your biggest fan.”

Grantaire blinks, cheeks faintly pink. “I thought you didn’t like me?” he says.

“I had my tongue down your throat for most of last night,” says Enjolras, somewhat dryly. “And apparently I married you. Of course I like you.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “Well, me too.”

Courfeyrac coughs a little. “Right, well, liking people aside there is no way the two of you could last a week living together.”

“Whoa, hold on,” says Grantaire. “Who said anything about living together?”

“Well, you’re married,” says Courfeyrac. “Obviously you’d live together.”

“Which we can do,” says Enjolras. “I have plenty of room in my apartment--”

“Hey, no, absolutely not,” says Grantaire. “You apartment is all the way on the other side of town--”

“You’re always there, anyway--”

“That’s because for some reason everyone keep dumping me there after a night out--”

“Not my fault you’re clingy and Enjolras doesn’t have a sex drive,” interjects Eponine.

“I think last night proves otherwise,” says Cosette, mildly. “But do continue.”

“I hate you all,” says Enjolras, sourly.

“No, but I’m interested, now,” says Courfeyrac. “Do you honestly think you could manage to stay married for a week without killing each other?”

“No,” says Grantaire.

“I wouldn’t kill Grantaire,” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac looks pleased. “See,” he says. “They can’t even agree on whether or not they’d be able to last married,” he says. “There’s no way they could do a week.”

“We’re right here,” says Enjolras.

“I bet you a hundred dollars,” says Courfeyrac. “A hundred dollars says you don’t last a week.”

“That’s unfair,” says Eponine. “The odds are very firmly in your favor, Courfeyrac, don’t be mean.”

“Fine,” says Courfeyrac, “fifty--”

“Five hundred dollars,” says Enjolras, loudly, “that Grantaire and I can survive to the end of the week married.”

“With all that that includes?” says Courfeyrac, sounding odd.

“With all that that includes,” agrees Enjolras. “Right, Grantaire?” He reaches out with his right hand to take hold of Grantaire’s free hand, and squeezes.

Grantaire startles, eyes darting around the room, and looks like what he really wants to be doing is hiding behind his decorative scarf. “Um,” he says. “Do we each get five hundred dollars?”

“Sure,” says Courfeyrac, even as Combeferre chokes and has to be pat on the back by Cosette.

“Deal,” says Enjolras, and holds out his left hand. This has the added bonus of being the hand with the wedding band on it, but mostly he does it so he can keep rubbing calming circles onto the back of Grantaire’s palm. “See you all next Saturday.”

\--

It occurs to him sometime on the plane ride home, that possibly he might have not thought this through.

“Grantaire?” he hisses, staring down at the man’s head. His...husband is using him as a pillow, and has been for the better part of the flight. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are across the aisle, and Courfeyrac is pretending that he’s not staring at them every time Enjolras looks over.

Everyone else is scattered throughout the plane, but occasionally Enjolras can hear the sound of Bossuet knocking his head on the overhead compartments and apologizing.

“Grantaire?” he says again. “Wake up.” He jostles his shoulder a bit.

“What?” says Grantaire, not opening his eyes. “Stop that.” He puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and leaves it there. “You’re making me dizzy.”

Courfeyrac makes a terrible cooing noise and has to be physically restrained by Combeferre when Enjolras levels a glare at him.

“Are you okay with this?”

“With what?” says Grantaire.

“With the marriage thing.”

Grantaire yawns. “Yes, Enjolras,” he says. “I am perfectly happy being married to you for a week so that we can each get five hundred dollars.”

The woman sitting behind them makes a choking noise, which Enjolras ignores in favor of staring at Grantaire. “Oh,” he says. “Okay.”

“Awesome,” says Grantaire. “Can I go back to sleep, now?”

“Of course,” says Enjolras, a little bit at a loss. “Why wouldn’t you be able to go to sleep--” he breaks off, eyes narrowing minutely, when the woman behind them puts her noses up a bit. “Grantaire?” he says.

Grantaire sighs. “Yes?”

“You don’t want a proper wedding or anything, do you?”

“What, with dresses and cake and bouquets?” says Grantaire. He shudders. “That would be awful.”

Courfeyrac makes a series of frantic gestures at the two of them before chucking a piece of paper over. “ _You’d get to kiss him again_ ,” reads out Enjolras. “Thank you for that, Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac looks pleased, and the woman behind them makes a scandalized noise and subtly shifts her feet away from them.

Enjolras’ eyes narrows even more. “Grantaire?” he says again.

This time Grantaire peels open his eyes and sits up. “What, Enjolras?” he starts to say.

“Don’t scream,” says Enjolras, and kisses him. They’re about twenty minutes to landing, the fasten seatbelt sign is on, and there really is nowhere for the woman behind them to look besides forwards.

It’s probably more than a little mean for Enjolras to stick his hand down the back of Grantaire’s pants, but he does it anyway.

“Oh my god,” says Grantaire, when they pull back briefly to breathe. His eyes flick back to meet the woman’s. “You’re awful.”

“But not at kissing,” says Enjolras, to be certain. “Because I wouldn’t want to be awful at kissing, seeing as we are _married_ \--!” He raises his voice at the end, for effect, and Grantaire drags him in laughing.

“Awful,” he repeats. “But in the best ways possible.”

It really is only fair that they continue kissing once the plane has landed, Enjolras figures, and all the way to where they parked their car.

“Hey, Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac, from the seat across from them on the shuttle. “Do you have a thousand dollars?”

“Yes,” says Combeferre. “But you cannot have it.”

“Damn,” says Courfeyrac. “I regret this choice already.”

Enjolras doesn’t say I told you so, but that’s only because he’s busy with Grantaire’s tongue.

\--

“I cannot believe you have no food,” says Grantaire, three mornings in. “Close your mouth, you’re working from home today--I’m allowed to be awake.”

“What do those two even have to do with each other?” says Enjolras.

“You’re a very loud typer, you know?” says Grantaire. He’s still got his head stuck in the fridge and despite his professions of being awake, he’s not quite dressed. The sweatpants Enjolras is pretty sure are his are barely staying up, and they’re far too long; definitely his, then.

“What?” Enjolras gives himself a shake.

“It’s very hard to sleep with the racket you make when you’re on a roll,” says Grantaire. He gives up the pretense of looking at what Enjolras knows is his empty fridge. “It’s also hard to eat when you have no food.” He closes the fridge with a solid thumping noise. “Are you dressed?”

Enjolras tilts his head down so that his glasses fall down the bridge of his nose. “Am I dressed,” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Grantaire yawns and scratches at his chest.

“This coming from the man wearing borrowed sweatpants,” says Enjolras. “Those are going to fall off.”

“They are not,” says Grantaire. “Now get dressed--we’re going shopping.”

Enjolras scowls. “I don’t have time to go shopping,” he says. “I have work.”

Grantaire levels a glare at him. “How many words have you written?” he asks, like he already knows the answer is zero.

Enjolras saves and shuts down his laptop. “Fine,” he says. “Let me go get some shoes.”

Which is of course when Grantaire’s borrowed sweatpants do in fact fall down.

\--

“I cannot believe you were not wearing boxers!” hisses Enjolras, in the middle of the fruit aisle.

“I don’t know why you thought I would be,” says Grantaire. He picks up what the sign informs Enjolras is a golden delicious, and inspects it. “Does this look bruised to you?”

“How would I know,” says Enjolras. “And of course I thought you were wearing boxers!”

“I think it’s bruised,” says Grantaire. He tosses the thing back onto the pile, and a man a few steps behind them makes an affronted sort of noise. “And I literally just woke up--why the hell would I put on boxers?”

Enjolras takes a moment to digest that. “Please tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it does,” he says.

“That I can’t do,” says Grantaire, “as I have no idea what you think it means.” He selects an apple seemingly at random, and puts it into one of the plastic bags. “I’m not a mind reader, Enjolras.”

Enjolras swallows a slightly hysterical laugh. “Please tell me you weren’t’ sleeping naked in my bed.”

Grantaire makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t do that, either,” he says, “because that would be lying. And we all know the first rule of marriage is that ‘I must not tell lies.’”

“Right,” says Enjolras. “I mean, no!”

Grantaire blinks innocently at him.

“Why were you naked in my bed?” He says that louder than he intends, and the same man continues to look affronted.

“I was holding out hope that you would give up the ghost of work in favor of joining me,” says Grantaire, without looking up from his latest fruit inspection. “No--I was sleeping. What did you think I was doing?”

“I’m not objecting to sleeping aspect,” says Enjolras. “I am objecting to the _naked_ aspect.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire. “I see your point.”

He picks up a few more apples, still seemingly at random, before setting them into the bag.

“And?” says Enjolras, shrilly.

“I’m not sure what the problem is.”

“The problem is you being naked in my things!” Enjolras near shrieks. At least three people are staring at them, now, and he flushes. “Isn’t there some sort of etiquette for this?”

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned,” says Grantaire. “You lived with Courfeyrac in college, right?”

Enjolras wets his lips. “What does that have to do with that?”

Grantaire is silent for a moment. “You honestly have no idea?” he says.

Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

“Oh god,” says Grantaire. “Forget I said anything.”

“What did he do?” asks Enjolras, through gritted teeth.

“Um,” says Grantaire. “Let’s go get milk.”

“I am going to kill him,” says Enjolras, slowly, but he follows. “But Courfeyrac aside, don’t do that again.”

“What?” says Grantaire.

“Be naked in my things,” Enjolras repeats. “Please.”

“Ah, but see,” says Grantaire. “Technically those things are half mine, Husband.”

He means it jokingly, but Enjolras can already feel the beginnings of a headache simmering in the back of his temples. “Right,” he says. “Because our marriage was the stuff of fairytales.”

Grantaire raises both of his hands. “Hey, you’re the one who got us into this in the first place.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” says Enjolras, sharply.

“I mean, you were the one who climbed into my lap,” says Grantaire. He picks up a carton of milk and settles into the basket Enjolras is carrying.

Enjolras strains under the added weight. “What?”

“Also, you proposed to me, if I remember.”

“You remember?” asks Enjolras, heart suddenly thumping in his chest.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him. “Yes,” he says, slowly. “I always remember shit from when I’m wasted. We’ve been over this--drives Courfeyrac up the wall.”

“You remember,” repeats Enjolras. “Of course you remember.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yes?” says Enjolras, sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me you remembered?”

“Does it matter?” says Grantaire.

“Yes it matters!” exclaims Enjolras. “We got married in Vegas!”

Grantaire’s eyes narrow and his does an odd thing with his mouth. “You thought the only reason I married you was because I was blackout drunk?” he says.

“Yes?” says Enjolras. “What else was I supposed to think?”

“And what, we’re still married now because of some stupid bet you made with Courfeyrac in the heat of the moment?”

“Courfeyrac was lying,” says Enjolras. “And being ridiculous. Nothing about that moment was heated.”

“I don’t know, Enjolras,” says Grantaire. “It seemed pretty heated to me.”

“It was not!” protests Enjolras. “And would you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“Stop _that_ ,” says Enjolras. “That thing with your voice--stop doing it.”

“Being upset, you mean?” says Grantaire, slowly. “You want me to stop being upset?”

“Are you upset?” says Enjolras. “Why are you upset?”

“Why am I upset--” Grantaire starts to say, before shaking his head. “You know what, fuck this. I don’t need five hundred dollars.” He hands the bag of apples to Enjolras, practically thrusting them at his chest, and stalks off.

“Where are you going?” says Enjolras, after him. “Grantaire!”

Grantaire ignores him, lifts one middle finger, and disappears around an aisle corner.

Enjolras is left standing in the middle of the dairy section, milk and apples in one hand, uncertain, with a sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach.

He ends up buying the food anyway, with some added bread, cheese, and some canned soup. He gets what he knows is Grantaire’s favorite ice-cream as well, and spends the entire drive home alternating freaking out about how he knows _Grantaire’s favorite ice-cream_ and worrying about how Grantaire’s going to get home.

He needn’t have worried; when he gets home, the apartment is empty. The only remains of Grantaire’s presence are the sweat pants, thrown haphazardly onto Enjolras’ bed, and a sketchbook, unassuming and strictly for Grantaire’s eyes, left sitting on the kitchen counter.

Enjolras sighs, lets out a breath, and tries not to worry.

(He worries a lot.)

\--

Around nine o’clock that night, Enjolras breaks and opens the sketchbook. It is a poor choice. The first page is a drawing of him done in charcoal. Grantaire hasn’t sprayed the paper properly so it bleeds onto the next page, and Enjolras is grateful for that; the next one is him as well, and either Grantaire has been sneaking into his apartment to draw him sleeping without a shirt, or has a surprisingly accurate memory.

He spends a few moments in front of a mirror comparing his actual abs to Grantaire’s drawing of him, before the absurdity of his actions sink in.

The next few drawings are of their friends: Courfeyrac telling a joke with joy practically leaping off the page, Combeferre listening to the joke with wry amusement, Eponine and Cosette rolling their eyes with quiet affection, and, finally, Courfeyrac laughing at his own joke with body shaking laughter. Enjolras almost has to sit down for how real those moments are.

The next one requires actual sitting. It’s him, frowning at his laptop, and obviously it’s recent. Enjolras stares at it, blankly, heart suddenly pounding and thoughts racing. Because it’s gorgeous--Grantaire has somehow managed to add little highlights to his hair, added a blush to his cheeks, curved his mouth just so. It’s breathtaking, and Enjolras is all of a sudden speechless.

“Oh my god,” he ends up saying into his phone, a few moments later. “Courfeyrac, I think Grantaire is in love with me.”

Courfeyrac hangs up on him.

Enjolras sighs, and dials Combeferre

“Please don’t hang up on me,” he says, “but I think Grantaire is in love with me.”

“Say that again?” says Combeferre.

“Grantaire is in love with me?”

Combeferre hangs up on him.

Several moments later, when Enjolras has relocated to the couch, he comes to the conclusion, staring blankly at his own ceiling, that he is more than a little in love with Grantaire as well.

After that, it’s very easy to sit the sketchbook onto the coffee table, and go back to contemplating his fate. “I am an idiot,” he says eventually. “I am such an _idiot_.”

He can almost imagine Grantaire laughing at him, shaking his head and saying, _yes, you really are, Apollo. But I love you anyway_.

Enjolras’ stomach flip-flops a little in response to that. Which is stupid, actually, since Grantaire didn’t actually say that? It was just an imaginary Grantaire? Because Enjolras has those?

“This is bad,” he says, out loud.

He gets to his feet, retrieves his phone, and sighs. “Courfeyrac?” he says again. “I think I’m in love with Grantaire.”

There’s the sound of something crashing this time, before Courfeyrac says, “Where are you?”

“Home?” says Enjolras. “But what does that have to do with--”

Courfeyrac hangs up on him.

He tries Combeferre next, and only manages to get out, “I think I’m in love with Grantaire,” before he’s listening to a dial tone.

A few minutes later, they both show up outside his apartment. Enjolras only has time to open the door to let them in, before they come striding in. Each of them has a hand curled around Grantaire’s shoulders, and they physically drag him in.

“Good evening,” says Courfeyrac, with great gusto. “It has come to my attention that the two of you are made for each other.”

“Idiots,” says Combeferre. “I thought we agreed we were going to say idiots.”

“Nope,” says Courfeyrac. “You might have decided that, but I said no such thing.” He nudges Enjolras’ door closed behind him, and shoves Grantaire off towards Enjolras. “But same thing, basically.”

He thrusts a bunch of papers at Enjolras, who takes them, blinking, and only has time to read _Termination of Domestic Partnership_ before Grantaire come stumbling past him and he has to reach out and steady him.

“I--” says Combeferre. “Yes.” He grabs Courfeyrac by the arm and starts back towards the door. “Do not kill each other,” he says, before he pulls the door open and herds Courfeyrac out of the apartment.

“Be good, R!” calls Courfeyrac. “I’m relatively certain he’s actually serious, when he says these things.”

The door slams on the end of his sentence with a thud.

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” says Grantaire.

“I’m sorry,” says Enjolras.

They both blink.

“What did you say?” says Grantaire.

“I think I need to kill him,” says Enjolras.

There’s another awkward pause, before Grantaire shakes his head.

“Wow,” he says. “Aren’t we a pair?” He laughs again, somewhat self-deprecating, before heading towards the couch.

Enjolras follows somewhat hesitantly, where he sinks down onto it. “Yes,” he says. “We are.”

“Are what?” says Grantaire. His fingers twitter along the back of the couch, and he makes a sport of looking anywhere but Enjolras.

“A pair,” says Enjolras. “I mean, I want us to be a pair.”

“What?”

“Officially,” continues Enjolras, feeling slightly out of his depth but also uncertain how to get his mouth to stop moving. “More officially than an accidental Vegas wedding. Like, dating.”

“What?” Grantaire says again. He’s starting to sound like something of a broken record.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I liked you,” continues Enjolras, somewhat desperately. He’s pretty sure he’s blushing again, but that’s probably because he’s just realized that the sketchbook is open on his coffee table. “Back in Vegas.”

Instead of being distracted, Grantaire’s eyes follow Enjolras’ line of sight to the sketchbook. “You read my sketchbook,” he says. “You--Enjolras! That’s private!”

Grantaire is the one blushing, and Enjolras comes to the decision that he does in fact have butterflies.

“Oh,” he says, cowed. “Sorry.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrow. “You’re not going to go off on some sort of high and mighty remark about how what’s mine is yours and being naked in your things?”

Enjolras frowns. “No,” he says. “It’s true, though.”

Grantaire’s mouth tightens.

“No, I--” protests Enjolras. “The what’s yours is mine, thing,” he clarifies, somewhat frantically. “Not the naked thing.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire. “I mean good.”

They stare at each other of a bit, before Grantaire sighs.

“Okay, to be clear,” he says. “and promise not to hit me, but you’re saying you actually want to get married, right?”

Enjolras swallows. “Yes,” he says. “That’s--yes.”

Grantaire nods. “And you’re saying this not under the influence of anything?”

Enjolras wets his lips, ears flushing, and lets all the air of his lungs. “No,” he says, quietly. “But that wouldn’t make a difference.”

Grantaire is silent.

“Just because I’m not able to stop myself from saying things doesn’t mean I don’t mean them,” Enjolras says quietly, to be clear.

Grantaire’s breath comes hissing out of his chest. “You remembered,” he says, voice a tight knot of emotion.

Enjolras nods, and meets his eyes. “Yes.”

Grantaire has very blue, very tired, very expressive eyes. They tell a story--Enjolras remembers meeting Grantaire, when he was trying out book covers for his first, self published novel, and the way the other man had given him sass right back and not even batted an eyelash. Grantaire’s eyes had been nothing but mystery, then. Now, Enjolras looks into them and finds his hard to breathe.

“Right,” says Grantaire. “Right, I’m going to kiss you know.”

“Okay,” says Enjolras, and then, with a small smile. “I do.”

For a moment Grantaire’s eyes flash with beautiful surprise, before he’s laughing, startled, and tugging Enjolras closer to him on the couch. “You dork,” he says. “Come here.”

\--

“We should probably fill out these forms,” Grantaire says, much later.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras.

“So you want to,” says Grantaire.

“Well, only if you want to,” says Enjolras.

“I mean, it makes sense,” says Grantaire. “Neither of us actually lives in the state of Nevada--unless you’re planning on giving up writing in favor of opening a Casino.” He raises both of his eyebrows, grinning, and laughs when Enjolras shoves at him.

“No,” says Enjolras.

“Good,” says Grantaire. “Because my perfect drunken memory is telling me that you are an awful gambler.”

Enjolras makes a mock affronted noise and rolls over mores solidly onto his side to glare at Grantaire. “Take that back,” he says.

“Nope,” says Grantaire. He gets to his feet in time to avoid Enjolras’ fingers, grinning, and rummages around the bedside drawer in search of a pen. “Did you see the ring you got me?” He uncaps the pen and holds it between his teeth and starts writing in his own information on the paper.

“No, actually,” says Enjolras. “But if it’s anything like the one you gave me, it’s not actually gold.”

“You have seen it, then,” says Grantaire, watching Enjolras slip the ring off of his hand.

Enjolras rolls his eyes and sets Grantaire’s ring down on the bed, before placing his own next to it. “We were drunk,” he says.

“And to be fair we did try to find actual decent rings,” says Grantaire, tapping his head. “Although we were slightly hindered by the fact that I couldn’t walk.”

“Right,” says Enjolras. He can sort of remember that, if fuzzily. “And also, the best man is in charge of the rings.”

“So it’s Courfeyrac’s fault,” Grantaire says gleefully. He finishes his own information and hands Enjolras the pen.

“No, see,” says Enjolras, as he’s finishing printing his name. “We need to sign this in front of a notary.”

“Presumably a notary from the state of Nevada,” says Grantaire.

“Maybe,” says Enjolras. “Sounds complicated.”

“Very complicated,” agrees Grantaire, setting the paper and the rings onto the bedside table. “Far too complicated for--” he pauses and looks over at the clock-- “seven in the morning on a Wednesday.”

Enjolras groans, but lets himself be tugged in close to Grantaire. “Why did you have to say that?” he says. “I have work.”

Grantaire blinks, removes his hand from Enjolras’ waist, and knocks the clock off of the bedside table. “Whoops,” he says, “it appears your clock is broken.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “Cosette is going to kill me,” he says, but lets Grantaire roll him onto his back. “I don’t have time to go shopping for a new editor.”

“Mm,” says Grantaire. “But see, once upon a time the lovely Ms Fauchelevent and I went out for drinks. And as you know, my memory is stellar.”

“Did you just threaten to blackmail my editor?” asks Enjolras, with no inflection.

“Maybe,” says Grantaire. “But you have no proof.”

“I heard you say it,” says Enjolras.

“True,” says Grantaire. “But we’re married. They can’t make you say it.”

Enjolras blinks at him, startled, before laughing. “You’re ridiculous,” he tells Grantaire, when he’s able to, and flips their positions neatly. “So very ridiculous.”

“But you like me anyway,” says Grantaire.

“True,” says Enjolras, walking a hand down Grantaire’ chest. “But if I’m going to be late, I might as well make the most of it.”

\--

_Enjolras isn’t sure how he ended up in Grantaire’s lap, but he’s not complaining it. It’s comfortable, warm, and Grantaire is a marvelous kisser. Enjolras is proud of himself for using words like marvelous, but when he tries to tell Grantaire this, most of it gets lost in translation._

_“I love you,” he settles for saying. “Let’s get married.”_

_Grantaire blinks, eyes wide, before nodding, somewhat dazedly, and letting Enjolras drag him off towards their friends._

_“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras cries. “Combeferre! Grantaire and I are getting married!”_

\--

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I am actually doing another giveaway, which can be found [here](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/post/56152185689/the-i-have-an-army-giveaway).


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